Of Billiards and Balls
by mapodoufu
Summary: Freud takes Napoleon's advice and attempts to improve his relationship with Shiro by using more than questionable methods. Freud/Shiro. Yaoi.


**AN: My first uploaded story, so be kind.**

_Disclaimer: I do not own Houkago no Charisma._

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><p>A painful silence echoed throughout the poolroom.<p>

Poised awkwardly on a long, camel-coloured couch, Shiro tried desperately to avoid making eye contact with Freud. The psychologist stood elegantly by the far corner of a sleek, velvet green inlaid billiards table, glossy cue stick held casually in his right hand as he gathered fifteen solid and striped billiards balls into a neat triangular pattern on one end of the surface. On the end nearest to Shiro, a lone white cue ball sat quietly, perfectly centered relative to the edges of the table.

'Where is everyone?' Shiro wondered, hoping frantically for someone, anyone, to come through the thick mahogany doors and shatter the strangling silence. Naturally, no one did. He continued staring down at his knees, tensed.

Freud made his way around the pool table, bent forward, lined up his cue stick, and lightly propelled the pure white cue ball forward, letting it collide with the perfectly arranged triangle that then dispersed about the table. Straightening, he spared a glance in the direction of the room's other inhabitant, lips curving momentarily before his expression morphed back to it's usual flatness.

Shiro's brow wrinkled as he attempted to calm himself down. Being alone with Freud was just like being alone with anybody else, he reasoned; nothing would happen and it would be an uneventful day. Hearing the clattering of the billiards balls, Shiro instinctively lifted his head, suddenly finding himself locking gazes with Freud. His face flushed a pale, filmy pink.

Looking evenly down at Shiro, Freud, at length, drawled out, "Billiards isn't a single person game, Shiro." Was that an invitation? The last few balls finally rolled to a stop, letting the veil of quiet settle once more.

He stood up from the seat cautiously, thrown by the painfully civil nature of Freud's behavior. His footsteps seemed to thunder throughout the room as he approached the rack of spare cue sticks leaning against the wall by the door. As Shiro tugged the nearest one out of it's socket, he shot a questioning look at Freud.

"S...stripes or solids?" Shiro asked nervously, referring to the billiards balls. In response, he received a raised eyebrow. Shiro felt like kicking himself-they wouldn't know the answer to that question until after the next turn, which would be Shiro's.

Propping his cue stick up against the billiards table, Freud took three long, casual strides in Shiro's direction. Slim legs flexed against the fabric of Freud's uniform pants as he moved, and Shiro felt his own eyes drifting downwards. "Has your brain shriveled to the point that you've discarded any and all memories of how to play billiards?" Pale, tapering fingers splayed themselves across the wall, inches from Shiro's left temple, and Freud leaned forward, breath ghosting over the shell of Shiro's right ear. Shiro took an instinctive step back, colliding with the cue stick holder. "Perhaps you should," another wave of heated air exhaled over Shiro's reddening ear, "go ask daddy dearest for instructions?"

Cue sticks were pressed uncomfortably against the small of his back, but Shiro didn't dare to step forward. His own cue stick was clutched tightly to his chest, the knuckles of his hands whitening around the equipment. "F-Freud! What're you..." Shiro's cheeks were akin to a rose, and his breath came in short bursts. Freud had taken another step forward, and if not for Shiro's intervening cue stick their bodies would have been flush against each other.

"Uncomfortable, Shiro?" the name rolled off Freud's tongue, hanging in the sparse air between the two students. The clone's face was now directly in front of Shiro's, their breath intermingling hotly. Heat pooled somewhere within his body, and Shiro turned his head to the side in shame and embarrassment. As naïve as people thought him to be, he was acutely aware of what the feeling signified. He was -

Lips fluttered against his left ear. There was a sudden change in subject. "A curious thing, love is. People fancy it to be some sort of worthy thing. Everlasting. The ultimate happiness." Cool fingers caressed Shiro's opposite cheek, a thumb lightly stroking the soft skin above his cheekbone. The touch was gentle, affectionate almost. His heart thudded in his chest.

Abruptly, the hand disappeared, leaving a patch of quickly dissipating heat on Shiro's cheek. Confused, Shiro slowly turned back to face Freud. The clone now had both hands resting on the wall on either side of Shiro's head, boxing the boy in. Nervous tension wove it's way through his chest, and Shiro's nerve endings tingled. Freud had an inscrutable expression in his eyes, and his mouth was set in a dark smirk.

"It's a lie, of course. This state of mutual attraction, which causes one's heartbeat to speed, palms to sweat, and knees to weaken, is no more than the rushing of chemicals, of hormones, through your veins." Fingers dug into Shiro's shoulders and he was dragged forward, stumbling. His cue stick clattered to the ground, but neither Shiro nor Freud took any notice of it.

The psychologist spun the two of them around, pushing Shiro's back into the pool table. "Human nature dictates a natural desire to carry on genetic information through future generations," Freud leaned in, "to reproduce and," hips ground forward and Shiro felt their crotches rub together with an addicting sort of friction, "to have sex."

With that, Freud stepped back, leaving a flushed, gasping Shiro leaning weakly against the pool table. Bending down, the clone picked up Shiro's abandoned cue stick and placed it back in it's proper place in the rack. If not for the distinct bulge in Freud's trousers, Shiro would've believed him unaffected by the previous events.

Letting out a shaky breath, Shiro moaned almost indistinctly as the fabric of his pants shifted against him. Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, Freud heard the noise and turned, looking at Shiro with amusement. "I didn't know you swung that way." A mix of mocking laughter and something else, something much more carnal, was evident in Freud's eyes.

Adrenaline shot through Shiro's hormone-drenched haze, and he spoke daringly, "It's your fault," his hand drifted south, "for not finishing what you started." Unbuttoning his pants, Shiro plunged his hand in, face a dark shade of scarlet as he did. Apparently, that was all the prompting Freud needed, for he proceeded to sweep forward and shove Shiro back against the billiards table, causing a green striped billiards ball to tumble into a corner socket.

Freud jerked Shiro's chin up with one hand whilst the other shot down to join the hand in Shiro's pants. Their mouths crashed together violently, and within moments Freud's tongue was probing at Shiro's lips for entrance. The hand on Shiro's chin suddenly found it's way up his shirt, and deft fingers brushed over his overly sensitized nipples, causing Shiro to let out a gasp. Freud took full advantage of this and plunged his tongue into Shiro's mouth, swirling and licking around the cavern, eliciting pleasured moans from the dark haired boy.

Shudders ran through Shiro's body as he bucked against Freud's hand. The simple motion, a constant up and down slide of firm appendages, felt too good to be true. This was nothing like the wet dream he had had about Marie Curie. That had been shy, almost meek, a personification of discreet adoration. This, however, was almost animalistic in nature, a desperate need to feel flesh against flesh. Moral implications be damned. He wanted, needed, this.

The hand under his shirt shifted, leaving streaks of hot skin in it's wake. Freud's thumb and forefinger found their way back to Shiro's right nipple, rubbing, rolling, and pinching the quickly hardening nub. Their mouths separated for breath, and Freud smirked cooly, despite his swollen lips. Shiro looked back up at him through half lidded eyes, pupils clouded with lust.

"Did you," the hand in his pants lifted to stroke Shiro's cherry red cheeks, "like that?" Freud had adopted his trademark teasing tone once more, sounding for all the world as if he was inquiring about the weather. Fingers tweaked his nipples, and Shiro found himself letting out a gasping breath. "M-more...please...F-Freud!" and then both hands were tugging at his shirt, then his pants, and then oh dear Dolly that felt so good.

Freud's mouth was back, ravaging his own like a bee on honey. Their tongues clashed in a fight for dominance, and Shiro dissolved into a flurry of moans as the psychologist began suckling his tongue. How was Freud so good at this?

Clad only in his boxers by now, shoes and socks having been kicked off long ago along with his shirt and trousers, Shiro began fumbling with the buttons on Freud's shirt. "Y-you're...wearing..." his hands moved on to the waistband of the clone's trousers, "too much." Freud acquiesced to his demands, shrugging off his shirt and using one hand to push his pants down his hips. Like Shiro, he discarded his shoes and socks. They wouldn't be necessary.

Shiro's palms rested against Freud's chest, fingers grasping blindly as he engaged in receiving a hot, wet kiss. He could feel a distinct hardness rubbing insistently against his leg, and his own nether regions were throbbing furiously as well. The two boys began engaging in a sort of dry humping, thrusting their hips together in unison, seeking release.

The kiss paused momentarily as they gasped for breath, but rather than diving back in Freud opted to attack Shiro's smooth, pale neck instead, nipping and sucking his way down the gently curving slope. Meanwhile, the clone had completely removed Shiro's boxers, letting them pool around his ankles. Fingers wrapped themselves around his shaft, and before long a steady pumping motion was established. Freud's free hand found itself a place on Shiro's ass, squeezing the soft, malleable flesh, and the psychologist's mouth reached Shiro's collar bone, making dark bruises bloom wherever it attacked. By this point, Shiro was half leaning half sitting on the billiards table with his head thrown back in ecstasy. 'Please don't let this be a dream.' he thought.

Quivering palms drifted down to Freud's boxers, attempting to similarly strip the light haired boy. Impeded by the many faceted assault on his body, it took quite a few tries before Shiro met with success. Success being a subjective term, since Freud proceeded to do something with his fingers that nearly sent Shiro tumbling over the edge of rationality.

"A...ah-hhh!" Cries spilled forth from his lips, and it suddenly occurred to Shiro that there was a very high chance of someone walking in on them. The door didn't have a lock, and, come to think of it, why weren't the others here right now? It was Tuesday afternoon. Class was over. Where else did they have to go?

His thoughts were quickly dispelled by the migration of Freud's mouth from his collar to his chest. Moist lips closed around Shiro's left nipple, tongue swirling and sucking like a child savoring a lollipop. Trembling fingers tangled through pale blond hair, and Shiro kept his eyes clenched shut firmly, too shy to look down.

Freud released Shiro's pebbled nipple and licked a wet line across the boy's chest, dragging his tongue lazily about warm skin. The blond's face was now somewhat flushed, but his voice retained it's unaffected tone. Cool metallic eyes looked up. "Tell me, Shiro, what should I do next?" Hands ghosted over his thighs, and bodies shifted minutely as Freud teasingly positioned himself between Shiro's lower cheeks. Apprehension filtered through Shiro's mind. He had seen the size of Freud earlier, and... by Dolly that was going to hurt.

"W...will it fit?" he asked, eyes fluttering open, face pointedly averted.

The right corner of Freud's mouth lifted, "Logistically, I wouldn't know the answer to your question unless I was to try." The words 'May I?' were left unsaid, but Shiro gave a near imperceptible nod. When nothing seemed to happen, he rotated to meet Freud's gaze. One of the boy's hands was extended in the air in front of Shiro. "You didn't honestly expect me to go in dry, did you? Suck."

With a look of intense concentration on his face, brow wrinkling and cheeks puffing, Shiro carefully used his tongue to wet Freud's fingers. "Is...is that okay?" Dark eyes blushed and Freud's hand dropped out of sight. Distinctly aware of what was going to happen next, Shiro put his hands to the edge of the billiards table and held tight. His legs were tugged upward, letting his ankles rest on Freud's shoulder blades. The position left him feeling ridiculously exposed, entire body stretched before the psychologist's gaze.

Fingers burrowed past soft mounds and pressed into the small ring of muscle that formed the entrance to Shiro's ass. A fingertip entered, causing Shiro to squirm slightly. Then the finger pushed even further, nearly all the way in, and Shiro's mouth opened in silent shock. The alien feeling wasn't quite bad, but Shiro didn't really like it either. A second finger then made its entrance, and discomfort made itself known. A few pumps later, the feeling lessened. Impatience crept in.

"E...Enough!" Shiro slid off the billiards table and pushed Freud down, positioning himself over the other boy. "Put it in!" Lowering his hips minutely, he felt the hard rod poking at his butt crack. Blood rushed in two directions, and Shiro looked expectantly at the light-haired boy.

"Awfully eager, aren't you?" Giving a short upward thrust of his hips, Freud buried the head of his dick into Shiro's bottom. "However... did I not make it clear that I won't be going in dry? So, once again. Suck." His hips dropped, and he half sat up, resting on his elbows. Despite Freud's heavy flush, he still managed to give a teasing smirk.

Face equally red, if not even more so, Shiro slid down and sat on Freud's upper thighs, slowly lowering his head until he was face to dick with Freud. As he breathed shakily over the stiff erection, hesitating, another thought flitted through his mind. What if he messed up and Freud wasn't satisfied? He had never done anything, let alone thought of doing anything, like this before. Hands grabbed the top of Shiro's head and pushed him down, making his nose bump into the head.

"Hurry up and start before I actually do take you dry."

Shiro lifted his head a couple centimeters and repositioned his mouth over Freud's erection. His tongue flicked out and he licked along the crack at the top, lapping up the bitter pre-cum. The fingers on his head tangled through dark strands, the only sign from the clone saying that Shiro might be doing the right thing. Taking it positively, Shiro dropped his head all the way down, gagging slightly as the head of Freud's dick bumped the back of his throat. Giving it a firm suck, and then dragging his tongue along the underside a couple times for good measure, Shiro released the pulsing object and took a deep breath before deep throating Freud again.

Barely repressing a groan of pleasure, Freud mustered the will to push Shiro off and stand, pulling the boy up with him. "Th...that would be sufficient."

Slamming the dark-haired boy's front against the billiards table, Freud bent him over, displacing quite a few more billiards balls along with the white cue ball. Roughly pinning Shiro's wrists to the table's velvet surface, the psychologist gave a single, deep thrust and penetrated, basking in the unbelievably tight warmth.

Back arching at the sudden intrusion, Shiro noted, rather too late, that Freud was much larger than his fingers. Tears gathering in the corners if his eyes, he forced himself to say "Move." in an unwavering voice. Freud was too far gone to observe Shiro's body language, and he began thrusting in and out at a rate that had Shiro seeing stars.

"Nn...hng!" A particularly deep thrust hit something inside of him, and bolts of wicked pleasure shrieked through Shiro's nervous system. "H-harder!" he begged, dying to relive the experience. A split second later, the world flared white as renewed bouts of ecstasy flooded him. The metaphorical coil of tightly wound heat in his lower abdomen quivered, threatening to burst.

The side of the billiards table was digging into Shiro's stomach, each burst of pleasure accompanied by a twinge of pain. The table itself had been displaced, now positioned at an awkward angle, and all but two of the remaining billiards balls had been propelled to the carpet on the other side of the room as a result of the constant rocking motion. 'Faster,' Shiro mentally pleaded, 'Go faster damn it!' He could feel himself approaching the breaking point. Just a little bit more...

A light sheen of sweat coated Freud's back as he increased the tempo, rhythm inconsistent, almost desperate. "Ahh...hnnnn!" Any remaining reason was expelled as both became completely enraptured in the glow of a wonderfully new feeling. Thick white liquid spurted into Shiro and onto the beige carpet, forming two separate pools.

Collapsing backwards in a haze of exhaustion and satisfaction, Freud looked up at the panting Shiro, who remained bent over the pool table, completely spent. "We should... do this again sometime. I rather enjoyed it." Then his hand lifted to wipe the sweat off of his brow, and he exhaled deeply. In response, Shiro dropped to his knees, entire body still shaking from the aftereffects, and buried his red face in his palms. There were bigger issues to think about than future escapades.

"How are we going to explain the carpet?" Shiro moaned out miserably. Even if they cleaned up the stuff, distinctly white stains would remain on the distinctly not white carpet. Not to mention the windowless room currently smelled like sweat and... other bodily fluids. This was bad. Very, very bad.

Sitting up and stretching out his arms, Freud pulled on his boxers and tossed a shirt at Shiro. "How about we just tell everyone I fucked you on the billiards table until you came onto the carpet, and then apologize for the inconvenience?" His reply was nonchalant, spoken in a near monotone. He then pulled on his pants and brushed back his pale, mussed up hair with the fingers of his left hand. "Lying isn't healthy Shiro."

Strangled noises of dissent sounded from the boy crouched by the pool table. "N-No! We can't just say that we... did stuff on the pool table. It'll be so awkward and and and-!" A leather shoe was tossed at his head.

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><p>Three red faces were pressed against the door, and a fourth was passed out on the floor. At length, a voice, Ikyuu's, choked out, "I don't think I'll be able to play billiards anymore." Misty glasses were removed and wiped clean by shaky hands. This was not how he had planned to spend his afternoon. Listening to his friends have sex, that was. Sure, his original was a supporter of free sex and all, but that didn't mean he enjoyed feeling like a voyeur. Because really, it was one thing to advocate universal liberality, but a completely different matter when it came to public displays of... high-rated things.<p>

Face number two replied to the monk's statement. "Forget playing billiards. I vote on not entering that room again. Ever." Napoleon looked slightly green, and went on in a quieter tone, "When I told them to get along better, I didn't mean it like this..." By this point, he was sorely regretting the suggestion. He should have known that telling Freud to do stuff would explode in his face at some point. In one of the most awkward ways possible, apparently. Thank God they hadn't opened the door. He wasn't ready to be scarred for life.

Looking slightly guilty, Elizabeth murmured, more to herself than the others, "I thought it was kind of hot." The images the noises had brought to mind were very attractive, and akin to eye candy. Crouched by the door with her classmates, she had barely repressed quite a few squeals during the happening.

"What?" Two aghast faces swiveled to face her in unison.

Eyeglasses glinted, and a hand felt her forehead. "You don't seem sick. Napoleon, any ideas?" Elizabeth slapped the protruding hand away and blushed hotly, "I'm a girl. We can't help it, okay!" Huffing, she looked away.

From her position on the ground, Nightingale rolled over, still unconscious to the world. She had passed out before anything major had happened, having been the one who had first discovered what was going on. It had been her unmoving body that had alerted the others that something odd had occurred. They, however, had stayed very much aware of what was going on, too shocked to escape and not shocked enough to faint.

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><p><strong>AN: I'd really like to know if there were any characterization issues, or grammar mistakes. Either review or PM me with corrections regarding those two things. All other feedback is welcomed too (^^). Oh yes, this is a oneshot, in case you were wondering.<strong>


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